Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, The burial-ground God's-Acre.

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Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.

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The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

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In old age our bodies are worn-out instruments, on which the soul tries in vain to play the melodies of youth. But because the instrument has lost its strings, or is out of tune, it does not follow that the musician has lost his skill.

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A solid man of Boston; A comfortable man with dividends, And the first salmon and the first green peas.

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The secret anniversaries of the heart.

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Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

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Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.

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Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.

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Some poems are like the Centaurs--a mingling of man and beast, and begotten of Ixion on a cloud.

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O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

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A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.

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It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.

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Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.

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The heaven of poetry and romance still lies around us and within us.

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History casts its shadow far into the land of song.

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To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf.

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A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood.

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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

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